The Martialist: The Magazine For Those Who Fight Unfairly

Routine… same ol’ boring crap… Get up, get
dressed, eat breakfast, fight with the wife over something insignificant, hop
on a train… 12 hours of your life elapses… work… and for the life of you, you
don’t have a clue what you have accomplished in the grand scheme of things.

Your footsteps echo like a cerebral metronome regulating the flow of thoughts
invading your mind. Drifting through all the clutter like the “flying
Dutchman”, you mechanically set a course for home oblivious to your
surroundings… and of course, don’t notice a pair of dirt bags on a parallel
course with you until they rudely block your path, demanding something you
probably don’t have or don’t want to give.

Funny… actually NOT funny… well, you know what I mean. Funny how your
metabolism goes from 0 to 60 in a tenth of a second. From insensitive torpor
to feeling like your nerve endings are crackling like live wires. “I’m sorry,
I didn’t get that…” sounds like the thing to say, but somehow, I felt like
there was no acceptable answer for those lads. “I don’t need this crap” rings
in my head; I sidestep and take my leave, right? Wrong. Step left, step right,
your stepping in it, ankle deep. Adrenaline starts to drip at an
ever-increasing rate, leaving you with the taste of ashes in your mouth, Jell-O
legs, and the feeling your lunch is on its way.

“Alright, what do you want?” Simple question… who would expect a fist across
the face for an answer? Apparently, I didn’t. Crack! I’m down, fireworks in my
head and coals burning in my jaw. “Get up, c’mon,” the little voice inside my
head says… easier said than done. Performing a drunken jig, I make it up,
gather my thoughts. It is so damn fuzzy… shadows are dancing around me, pain
is on the way. Like a moron, I pat my pockets. Really, maybe I can hand them
money… right? Wrong. All I can come up with is a stupid pen. “You guys take
checks?” Here comes the big shadow… In goes the pen… Out comes the scream. 

What kept my hand? Hell if I know. The Spartans use to say that the mind
accesses “rooms” where there is no mercy, no quarter while in combat… to later
pull back in rooms where love and decency dwell. Well, shit, something busted
me out of room number one… what? You tell me, smart-ass.

So, the worst is over? Nope, my body allows the pain to creep back… It’s awful,
man; I need help. Everything is closed; I catch a glimpse of myself in a
window… Lopsided and pathetic, a real Dickens character. Two thousand dollars
worth of designer clothing and I look like the “artful dodger.” Yes, I read
Oliver Twist…. A few more excruciating steps bring me to Tim Horton’s, a twenty
four-hour donut and coffee joint, and hopefully a phone I can use. I’ m so
happy I’m weeping.

I approach the nice lady at the counter and ask for help. My jaw is badly
dislocated and although I want to say: “Can I call my wife, I’ve been mugged”,
all that comes out is spittle, blood and grunts. The concerned cook comes out
with a pipe and tells me to get “the fuck out of there”. I pass out.

There are no weapons in NHB events. Your opponent won’t pull out a knife in
the middle of your bout and start gutting you with it. He won’t crack your arm
with a baseball bat. He won’t break a beer bottle and try to sever your
jugular with it. He won’t pull out a gun and shoot you with it.

There are no multiple attackers in NHB events. Your opponent’s friend won’t
jump in and kick you in the head while you have your opponent in your guard
for 10 minutes. His friends won’t jump in and smash a bottle or crowbar
against your skull in the ring or in the octagon. You don’t have to worry about being
blindsided.

You fight in a controlled environment in NHB events. You don’t grapple on
gravel or broken glass or cement in NHB events. You don’t have to worry about
a slippery or icy surface in NHB events. You don’t have to worry about knee-high snow or its suffocating you while in the guard for 10 minutes in NHB
events. You don’t have to worry about blizzards, rain, winds or low visibility
in the ring or the octagon. You’re not in a train, staircase, elevator, or subway in
a Mixed Martial Arts (MMA) fight; therefore you have no worries about falling into subway/metro
tracks. You don’t have to worry about being pushed through a plate glass
window and geting disfigured by broken glass or get tossed off a balcony of a
10-story building.

Your clothing and variables won’t limit you in NHB events. You’re not wearing
a suit and tie or skirt and heels in MMA. You’re not wearing winter boots,
gloves and a 3-quarter winter jacket in the ring or octagon. You’re not
carrying your 10-month-old baby in your arms while fighting in NHB events.
You’re wife or mother isn’t next to you while fighting in NHB events.

Your health isn’t an issue in NHB events. You don’t compete if you have a flu
or fever or sickness when fighting in the ring or octagon. You don’t compete
and fight if you have a sprained ankle, broken wrist, or bad back in NHB
events.

Your state of being isn’t an issue in NHB events. You won’t compete if you
only had 4 hours sleep per night over the last 3 days due to a hectic work
schedule. You won’t compete if you had too much to drink with some buddies to
kick back after a long workweek.

Your opponent is not jacked on Heroin, Morphine, Cocaine, Crack or any other
substance while fighting in NHB events. Or… maybe he is, actually. Are they
drug testing in MMA?

In NHB events, tou know your opponent and what style of fighting he trains in before the
fight and can therefore prepare for him weeks or months in advance.

You know when, what time, and where you are going to fight in advance and can
train, eat, sleep and supplement accordingly prior to the fight. You even have
the luxury of warming up before the fight in NHB events.

You can tap out, the ref can stop the fight, or your corner can throw in the
towel in an NHB fight.